


SASO 2016 Bonus Round Fills

by phantomwised



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: F/M, Hiruma's mouth, It's been a few years since I read es21, M/M, and is very Pure, chapter 2 is kind of kidfic, im gomens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7057981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomwised/pseuds/phantomwised
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing.</p><p>Hiruma chews angrily on his bottom lip as he flips through his black pocketbook, rereading the pages for something he knows isn’t there. He remembers everything he’s ever written in that damn thing, but there is no way, absolutely no fucking way that he’s managed to overlook something so critical.</p><p>There is nothing in his blackmail book regarding Anezaki Mamori.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ES21: Hiruma Youichi/Anezaki Mamori

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure how many of these there'll end up being since I'm not much of a writer, but I wanted to try something different!
> 
> Prompt: Remember when Hiruma tried everything to intimidate Mamori and failed every time?

_Nothing._

Hiruma chews angrily on his bottom lip as he flips through his black pocketbook, rereading the pages for something he _knows_ isn’t there. He remembers everything he’s ever written in that damn thing, but there is no way, absolutely _no fucking way_ that he’s managed to overlook something so critical.

There is nothing in his blackmail book regarding Anezaki Mamori.

The clubroom is empty, and it’s either the fact that technically classes are still in session or the sheer amount of murderous aura surrounding the quarterback that’s steering the rest of the Devil Bats away. Hiruma kicks his feet up onto the table, tapping his nails against his thigh in a jittery rhythm.

What a stupid oversight. Hiruma Youichi doesn’t _make_ stupid oversights. He is calculated, he is methodical, and most of all, he is ruthless. In his two years at Deimon he’s collected dirt on every faculty member, every student, hell, even any snot-nosed middle schoolers who even _looked_ like they were considering enrolling at Deimon High.  
Yet somehow he’s managed to overlook the football team’s headstrong second-year manager. This wouldn’t be a problem, he thinks with a brief flash of annoyance, if Anezaki was anything like the rest of the girls at school. Hiruma Youichi is someone to be feared, someone spoken about in hushed whispers and looked at with terror; never has a girl (or a guy, for that matter) stood up to him like she does.

Never has someone dared to get in his face like this _fucking manager._

Pushing himself to his feet, Hiruma tucks his book back into his pocket.

Fine.

He’s never been opposed to playing dirty when he has to.

+++

“Oi, fucking manager!” Hiruma snipes as he unbuckles his helmet, jogging off the field to where Anezaki is handing out water bottles to the rest of the team.

She gives him a cold look at the nickname, as usual, and nearly tosses his bottle directly at his face, “I’ve asked you to stop calling me that, Hiruma-san.”

“Tough shit.” He takes a long pull from the bottle, squeezing some into his unruly hair for good measure before lobbing the bottle back at Anezaki in an equally aggressive way. “You were hardly watching the field this quarter. We don’t need you here if you’re gonna be fucking useless.”

He makes sure to stand too close, nearly looming over Anezaki and flashing his teeth in what he knows is _not_ a friendly grin. Instead of shrinking away, Anezaki turns her head, scanning the sidelines. Hiruma bites back an annoyed hiss, knowing what’s coming next.

“You haven’t seen Sena anywhere, have you? He said he was only going to get batteries for the camcorder, he should’ve been back by now.”

“I told fucking manager number two to go right into the bleachers to start filming,” Hiruma lies easily, not missing the way _’Eyeshield’_ flinches where he stands on the other side of the bench, “He can damn well make himself useful since he’s the dumbass that forgot the batteries in the first place.”

Predictably, Anezaki stiffens at that, fixing her eyes back on the captain with a harsh glare, “ _Don’t,_ ” she begins, pressing a palm flat against Hiruma’s chest and pushing him back with surprising force, “Talk about Sena like that.”

With that she turns, walking away to gather the water bottles and towels from the rest of the team, completely unaffected by Hiruma’s attempted intimidation.

He scowls. This isn’t going to be as easy as he thought.

+++

Three months. Three _fucking_ months and _nothing_ was working.

Physical intimidation? Nope. Either the girl is actually blind or she has a startling lack of self-preservation when faced with claws and fangs.

Verbal abuse? That ship sailed so long ago that every Devil Bat must have become immune to Hiruma’s particular vocabulary by now. And though Anezaki rarely cursed back in response, her retorts were scathing to a point where she didn’t _need_ to.

Guns? The bitch deflected bullets with her clipboard like it was nothing. He was really going to have to invest in some heavier artillery if he wanted to maintain his intimidation factor on that front.

Physical violence? Hiruma’s a bastard, sure, but he isn’t a _monster,_ regardless of what others might say. Besides, physical force is hardly his brand. Who needs to resort to a fight when you can scare anyone into doing anything you want?

Anyone, he supposes, except fucking Anezaki Mamori.

Groaning, Hiruma scratches his hands through his hair, raking his claws against his scalp. Cerberus hops off his lap with a disgruntled growl, clearly annoyed at being disturbed from his nap by Hiruma’s antics. The dog growls again, and Hiruma digs a treat out of his blazer pocket and tosses it for the mutt to chase.

As much as he hates to admit it, the past months of bickering and (failed) intimidation with Anezaki have been _fun._ He hadn’t realized how thrilling it would be to have someone who wouldn’t be easily cowed by his threats.

“ _Fuck._ ” He breathes, leaning back and digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. He’s in trouble. He’s _enjoying_ this. Honestly enjoying butting heads with this tiny, headstrong, take-no-shit manager. 

It’s more than just the arguing. It’s her wicked grin when they come up with the perfect strategy to outwit a stronger team. It’s the anger in her eyes when she yelled at him about letting Sena play running back. It’s the way she memorized every one of his Devil Bat play cards. The way _he_ memorized each of her sign language signals in return.

Huffing a sigh through his nose, Hiruma stares up at the white ceiling of the clubroom.

He’s so, so fucked.

+++

“Hiruma!” Anezaki calls out to him as he walks back to the team van post-game, intent on reviewing the videos of their plays. He glances at her over his shoulder (when had the honorific been dropped from his name? Had it been weeks? Months?), seeing her jogging after him with her clipboard still in hand.

“Hah?”

“Don’t _’hah’_ me, you reinjured your ankle on that last blitz, I can see you limping.” Her gaze is as analytical as ever, but it’s impossible to miss the worry underlying her words, “You should have called a timeout and let me wrap your foot.”

(She knows very well that Hiruma would never have called a timeout for his own injury. He’d rather be carted off the field on a gurney than show the captain’s weakness to the opposing team.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he bares his teeth at her in a sharp smile as he opens the back of the van, “And we won in the end, so I don’t know what you’re so worried about, fucking manager.”

Anezaki smacks the back of his head with her clipboard for that, sighing as though she doesn’t know why she expected any different. Sometimes Hiruma thinks she knows a lot more about him than she should, than he’s comfortable with her knowing.

“Sit.” There’s no room for argument as she points to the chair in the van, pausing only once to throw him a _look_ as she digs the first-aid kit out from the desk under the television monitors.

Hiruma flops into the seat, untying his turf cleat and easing it off of his (admittedly swollen) ankle as Anezaki returns with a roll of sport tape. She doesn’t make a face as she gently grabs his foot, even though it must smell less than pleasant after playing a full game.

“You really should take better care of yourself.” She rips the first line of tape off. “I told you, you’re the _last_ one on this team that can get injured.”

“I’m fine.” There’s a lot less snark in his voice than he wants, and he smirks again before he speaks, “You worry too much, _fucking manager._ ”

Anezaki retaliates by sticking a strip of tape to his shin and pulling hard, ripping the hairs out of his leg. Hiruma howls out a curse and jerks his foot away.

“Someone has to worry about you, fucking _captain_.” She meets his eyes, steady and unwavering as ever.

Hiruma laughs.

He’s not sure what he ever would have done if Anezaki was scared of him.


	2. ES21: Mushanokoji "Kid" Shien/Tetsuma Jo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp welp back again with another eyeshield 21 fill!!
> 
> Pairing: Kid/Tetsuma  
> Rating: G

It’s only been a few weeks since they started practicing and the ball still feels wrong in Shien’s hands, his grip too wide, the leather and stitching too rough on his uncalloused fingers. The sun and wind of the gardens is another welcome feeling of wrongness, so very different from the hollow silence of his father’s indoor shooting range and the _click-BANG_ of Shien’s pistol.

Aim doesn’t come as naturally to him with a ball as it does a bullet and Tetsuma often has trouble catching his clumsy passes, once or twice running into trees or tumbling into bushes in his single-minded effort to catch a football that Shien has thrown wild.

(They learned very quickly that American football was not a game they could practice inside the mansion, between Shien’s haphazard throws and Tetsuma’s inclination to run _through_ anything in his way when chasing a pass.)

“Sorry, Tetsuma.” Shien chuckles, trying to dislodge a ball that he’s gotten stuck in a tree. The stick he found to try and knock it down is still a bit short, and he has to jump in an attempt to rattle the branches. At his side, Tetsuma gives a slight huff, and Shien knows that if he were looking at Tetsuma right now he would find a mild glare on his friend’s face.

“Yeah, yeah I know, I’m doing better,” he finally manages to knock the ball out of the tree, right onto Tetsuma’s head, “Shit! Sorry.”

Tetsuma, ever unperturbed, simply presses the football into Shien’s hands firmly, a silent _’I’m fine, don’t worry about it.’_

Shien laughs again at Tetsuma’s expression, years of growing up together and learning the subtle changes in the boy’s face telling him that Tetsuma is mostly annoyed with himself for not being able to jump high enough to catch the pass as it flew over his head (way too high for a _professional_ player to catch, let alone a thirteen-year-old boy).

That’s one of the things Shien admires most about his quiet friend: his dedication and belief that he _will_ accomplish anything he’s been tasked with. Tetsuma never believes there’s anything he can’t do.

Of course, this has lead to its fair share of problems over the years, with Tetsuma literally working himself to the point of collapsing in his attempt to follow everything asked of him to the letter. Shien long ago learned to keep a close eye on the short-haired boy, to phrase his opinions and suggestions very carefully to avoid getting Tetsuma hurt.

“Alright,” Shien starts, tossing the ball and catching it one-handed, “One more try before our fathers get home.”

Tetsuma nods emphatically, moving ahead a few steps and waiting for Shien to call the pass.

Pass routes were Shien’s idea, something he came across while reading about the rules of American football. The page had been confusing and the diagrams hadn’t totally cleared up that confusion, but Shien had quickly memorized the routes and taken the page to Tetsuma, eager to try out something that would make it easier for Tetsuma’s machine-like brain to follow the passes.

Winding his arm back, Shien digs his right foot firmly into the grass, shouting out a, “Tetsuma, square in!” as he releases the ball, the leather rolling off his fingers in a way that still isn’t entirely familiar to him.

Tetsuma is off without hesitation, feet running precisely along the route line in the way that only Tetsuma’s need for perfect compliance can, and he twists his torso mid-stride to receive the ball.

Shien winces as he sees the mistake before it happens. His throw is slightly too long, Tetsuma’s hands coming up just a little too late, and the end of the football collides squarely with the centre of Tetsuma’s forehead.

Knocked off balance, Tetsuma hits the ground with a surprised grunt and the football bounces off into the line of bushes surrounding the yard.

“Are you okay?” Shien asks as he runs, kneeling beside his fallen friend and inspecting the bruise already darkening on Tetsuma’s forehead, “Sorry, Tetsuma, that one was entirely my fault.”

Shaking his head, Tetsuma glares, and Shien knows it’s a sharp reprimand for blaming himself. Even without speaking, Tetsuma’s always been quick to respond, even if Shien is _pretty sure_ that this time was actually his fault.

The bruise on Tetsuma’s forehead is already a dark and angry purple, and Shien reaches out to gently rub his thumb along the edge of it, “Okay,” he says, replying to Tetsuma’s wordless insistence that he’s fine and it doesn’t hurt, “But you really do need to put some ice on that before it swells up too much.”

There’s a faint blush on Tetsuma’s cheeks that Shien can only see because of how close he is to the other boy’s face, and feeling suddenly nervous he pulls his hand back from Tetsuma’s forehead, leaving it hovering awkwardly in the space between them.

His face is warm.

“I. Um.” Shien isn’t sure what he’s stammering for, but the redness on Tetsuma’s cheeks doubles, standing out against the tanned skin.

Feeling unsure of himself, he slowly brings his hand back to Tetsuma’s face, tracing his thumb back along the outline of the bruise and trailing it down to his cheek, resting it beneath Tetsuma’s long eyelashes. His heart is thumping a staccato in his throat and he doesn’t think any amount of Olympic-tier breath coaching would be able to slow it down. Have Tetsuma’s eyelashes always been this long? Have his lips always been so thin and wet?

But then Tetsuma is moving away from him, pulling himself to his feet with that red stain still smeared hotly on his face, and Shien knows that he’s going to go get ice for his forehead, he’s honestly surprised that Tetsuma held out this long before moving to listen to him.

“Tetsuma, wait!” Shien isn’t sure what he’s doing, isn’t quite certain why he grabs Tetsuma’s wrist and turns him around to face him.

He _definitely_ has no idea why he’s pressing his lips to Tetsuma’s, softly pressing chapped skin against chapped skin.

There’s a surprised noise against his mouth, and it’s the closest he’s heard Tetsuma come to saying an actual word in weeks, but those lips are pressing shyly back against Shien’s own. The thumping of his heart in his throat jumps higher when he feels Tetsuma’s wrist move in his grasp and soon there are thick, strong fingers tangling with his and pressing their palms together.

Shien doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but they shoot open at the feeling of Tetsuma’s other hand reaching up to brush his long hair out of his face and tuck it behind his ear.

Their lips part but their hands stay clasped together, Shien desperately trying to swallow around the sudden dryness in his mouth, trying to force out words that he isn’t even sure of.

“You, uh,” he manages, looking at the ground in an effort to stop staring at Tetsuma’s lips, “You should go put ice on your head now.”

Tetsuma nods, flushed red to the tips of his ears, and walks speedily into the house. 

Shien lets out a long breath and turns to go find the ball where it’s rolled into the bushes. The leather and seams don’t feel as foreign to him now, though that shouldn’t be possible after only a few minutes. It seems to fit in his hand better, and he gives it a few experimental tosses, and thinks idly to himself that maybe American football is something he can see himself being really good at in the future.

_No,_ he amends, glancing over his shoulder to where Tetsuma has emerged from the house with an ice pack pressed dutifully to his head,

It’s something he can see _them_ being really good at.


End file.
